


Coming Home

by esteefee



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death, First Time, Food, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle, the war is not over. This is a tale of coming home.</p><p>(A post Archangel/Avatar/Armageddon story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by Mischief5.
> 
> Now I've done it. New fandom!

Methos was in Colombo, Sri Lanka when his Watchers network pinged him with the news: MacLeod had resurfaced in Paris. He'd been seen at Ryan's gravesite, where he exchanged words with Dawson. 

Joe was too trusting, as far as Methos was concerned. MacLeod flickered in his mind's eye, face twisted with madness and grief, neck bent for the taking as Methos' heart broke. 

No, Joe was playing a dangerous game even speaking to MacLeod. 

Methos flew to Athens. He came for the ouzo that had been a particular favorite of Alexa's, but stayed for the food and lively evenings on the plaka, watching the olive-skinned girls with warm brown eyes dance with their jealous, hot-headed boyfriends while he ate tender, grilled lamb and tzatziki stuffed into freshly-baked pita. He developed a taste for retsina—vile stuff, really—and refused to allow himself to think about the Highlander, or love and madness, or death. 

On Thursday, he bought a newspaper from the small magazi owned by his friend Thomas. Methos took it back to his room above the plaka and poured himself a glass a glass of ouzo before opening the newspaper.

Inside was slipped a cramped sheet of writing with the latest news, including quickenings—oh, dear Vorshak, gone so soon? Methos had been looking forward to siccing MacLeod on him—Methos viciously cut off that thought and skimmed down to the portion that interested him. 

Apparently, Dawson now had a group of Watchers doing field research for him under a slender pretext. It was easy enough to read between the lines, and Methos feared for him. What wild goose chase was MacLeod sending them on? How deeply had he pulled Joe into his madness? It was a miracle MacLeod hadn't killed him already.

God, MacLeod. Methos closed his eyes and rolled the glass over his mouth, the scent of anise teasing his nose. Methos had borne such hopes, such ridiculous, wild belief in this one man, but that dream shattered along with MacLeod's mind under the weight of…what? The inconsistencies of Fate? The burden of his principles? Methos had tried, time and again, to soften him, to batter down, to bend that steel spine of his into a shape more conducive to the survival of ages, but that bloody ox! That beautiful, stupid, brilliant bloody man…

The cool of the ouzo slid down Methos' throat, but the aftertaste was as bitter as truth.

The Highlander would change for no man, and Methos' heart would have it no other way.

:::

More reports dribbled in, puzzling and not nearly so clear. A driverless car tried to run MacLeod down. A woman was reported dead but then was seen speaking to him on a bridge shortly before her brother tried to shoot and behead MacLeod. The woman then jumped to her death a second time. A mortal groundskeeper attacked MacLeod with a scythe and then collapsed and died. MacLeod was trying his damnedest to be killed, it seemed. So: the usual.

Methos found ouzo and retsina bottlers and set them up with his own resellers in London and Paris, intending a supply line for Joe's bar. 

A Watcher in Bolivia turned up a talisman with the symbol Joe was looking for.

Methos got in touch with an olive oil company and pretended to learn how to dance the hasapiko under the laughing instruction of a girl named Lina.

Two of the Watchers Joe assigned were found dead at a pre-Gallic holy site. 

Methos discovered a wine tasting tour and considered signing up. He then got the news that his friends, Maguire and Rosenthal, two more Watchers Joe had assigned to investigate the symbol, were killed in Iraq.

Methos bought a ticket to Paris instead.

:::

If there were any feeling worse than arriving at a party when all the guests had left, it was being the cavalry when the battle was already done. A final missive arrived just as Methos was leaving for the airport. The demon Joe was seeking information on, Ahriman, had been defeated. Not by a sword, but within the Immortal champion's mind.

Methos got drunk on the plane on terrible scotch. _That will teach you to get complacent, old man. After five thousand years you thought you'd seen everything. No real demons but those we create, right? Except the one that pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box to fuck with the people you care about._

Methos let himself into Le Blues and found Joe behind the bar stuffing some items into a traveling bag. Two dirty glasses and bottle of J&B sat on a table as if to emphasize how late to the party Methos was.

"Hi, Joe," Methos said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the prodigal son." Joe had a talent for bitter, and he was laying it on pretty thick. "Funny you should darken my doorstep today of all days. We could really have used a five thousand-year-old translator this past week or so to help us with our research."

"I hopped on a plane when I heard," Methos said. "I did bring a peace offering." He pulled the bottle of ouzo from his inside pocket and set it on the table. "Some of Athens' finest." Methos held his breath while Joe gave him a considering look.

He let it out when Joe uncapped the bottle and dragged out two shot glasses to pour them a couple.

"I am sorry, Joe."

"'Sorry,' he says." Joe tossed back the ouzo and grimaced. "Yeah, well. I'm sorry, too. And if you'll excuse me, I have to go see to the transport of some friends of mine. They'll be coming home in boxes." Joe came around the bar with his bag and cane. "I'll see you when I get back from Iraq."

"Joe." Methos stopped him with a hand. "Rosenthal and Maguire were friends of mine, too. If you need anything—funds, help with customs, anything at all—let me know."

Joe's eyes softened, and he nodded. "Come on. I wanna lock up."

Methos helped with the familiar routine then preceded Joe out the door before facing him. "Joe, did...is MacLeod around, do you know?"

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Don't go messing with him, Methos. He's been through a lot. He doesn't need your..."

"My...?" Methos raised his eyebrows.

"Aw, you know what I mean." Joe shuffled around to lock the door then picked up his bag. "You like screwing with him and you know it. Just leave him alone. He went home to rest."

Methos could almost be offended if it weren't God's truth. Not that Joe's words would keep him away.

Nothing would keep him away.

:::

First, though, Methos went home to dump his bags and shower. He wasn't procrastinating, per se, just regrouping. It was later than he intended, though, when he drove down the ramp and parked next to MacLeod's barge and got out of the car, waiting impatiently for MacLeod to sense him and come up above deck.

Methos' first thought when MacLeod stepped into sight was, "Where is his sword?" 

Well, no—truly, his first thought was, "My God, he cut his hair." Methos mourned the lost opportunity to ever run his fingers through that mane, to drag it over his chest and cock, to use it as an anchor while MacLeod sucked him. On the other hand, he was delighted MacLeod had finally embraced the times. The shortened length certainly emphasized the proud lines of his neck. But, by God, the man had lost a stone at least. 

And where was his sword?

"Greetings, MacLeod," Methos said as MacLeod's eyes fastened on him. "Care for some company?" Methos was proud of how blithe he sounded, as if his heart weren't beating a traitorous arrhythmia in his chest.

"Methos." Recognition ticked in MacLeod's eyes, but no anger or recrimination, as Methos had been expecting. Neither, though, did gladness or irritation register, or anything, really. It was as if Methos were the plumber coming to call. "Come on in," MacLeod said, and disappeared once again below.

Not an auspicious beginning. Methos clutched the paper bag he carried more tightly and trotted up the gangplank. 

Inside, he felt a chill as he took off his coat and surveyed the surroundings. Gone were all the objets d'art, all the antiques, the furnishings, or anything that made the barge comfortable. What remained was sparse; this was an ascetic's cave, lit by candles instead of torches. A mat lay disturbed on the floor—Methos had obviously interrupted MacLeod in the middle of something. He hoped to God MacLeod hadn't been sleeping on the thing. A quick glance toward the platform showed there still was a futon there. That was something, at least.

"Nice cave you've got here," Methos said, turning toward the counter. MacLeod, dressed in white yogi shirt and pants, was pouring some tea. Somehow, despite the absurd attire, he looked beautiful—luminous— in the low light. "A little spartan, don't you think?"

"It suits my needs," MacLeod said calmly. "It's good to see you. Tea?"

"I brought something better," Methos said. "From Athens. I think you'll like it. Well, the retsina definitely has to grow on you, but the ouzo is very fine, and the olive oil is pressed fresh by a family farm." He pulled out the three bottles and set them on the counter. 

"Thanks." MacLeod smiled briefly and looked at the labels before setting them down. "How have you been?" 

"You're not going to crack the liquor open?" Methos sat down on a stool. "How rude."

"Oh. Did you want some?"

"Sure. Open the ouzo." 

MacLeod did as he asked, pouring him a glass and setting it in front of him while Methos told him about the taste of chilled ouzo with fresh olives. 

"What about yours?" Methos said when he held his glass. 

"I'm not really drinking these days," MacLeod said, cupping his tea bowl with both hands.

"Oh, you are joking. You really do need a psychologist then."

The taunt dropped into the echoing silence of his expectation. He realized only when it didn't happen that there was no responding explosion to react to, to rise with, only the placid calm of MacLeod's brown eyes taking him in.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Methos demanded crossly.

"Wrong? There's nothing wrong."

Methos narrowed his eyes and retrenched. "I heard you destroyed Ahriman," he said slowly.

"Defeated. Not destroyed."

"Oh, yes." Richie had said something about that. Methos had stupidly dismissed it all as nonsense, already consumed by his own heartbreak. "He'll return in a thousand years. What of it? We probably won't be around to fuss about it."

"It isn't that simple," MacLeod said. 

"And what? You think he'll return ahead of schedule?" Methos poured himself another glass of ouzo. Really, it needed to be chilled.

"I don't know. He's a slippery one," MacLeod said pensively.

"How did you beat him, anyway?"

MacLeod stared into his tea. "I had to let go. I had to let go of everything—my will to fight, my hatred, my anger, my fear of death, my...everything."

Fear blossomed in Methos' chest, icy and hot, both. 

"Yes, well—it's over now," Methos said. "There are some things you'll need to feel if you're going to survive, don't you think?"

MacLeod regarded him over his bowl. 

"I'm sorry about Richie," Methos said deliberately. 

The flash was brief but brutal, wincing across MacLeod's features like the slash of a blade before that preternatural calmness returned. "He was a casualty of war. There were plenty more."

"But none as important to you," Methos pressed. "And maybe if Joe and I had believed you..." Another flash, this one long enough that Methos could see the pain and doubt lingering before MacLeod let out a slow breath. 

"It's in the past."

"But if I had been there with you, I might have been able to stop you."

MacLeod set down his tea too fast, and the liquid waked over his fingers, making him gasp. "Stop it," he said. "Why are you—it's done."

"Done and over so soon? And what about Richie? Is it so easy to forget him?"

MacLeod stared at him, those brown eyes alive again and filled with unnamable pain, and for a moment, Methos thought he'd done it—had brought MacLeod back from that far cliff. But then something like recognition passed over MacLeod's face. 

"You're goading me, Methos." MacLeod stepped away, leaving the spilled tea on the counter to go kneel on his mat.

Methos shook his head and found a pillow to sit on next to MacLeod's desk. MacLeod's eyes were closed, his hands resting on his thighs.

"Mac..."

"You're doing a pretty good job of it too, but Ahriman was much better."

Well, that stung.

"Of course, he was in my head at the time, reminding me of the thousands of ways I'd hurt my friends or destroyed their lives. Telling me how he'd bring my enemies back to life to kill everyone I loved in this world until I was left all alone in the dark." MacLeod lifted his hands and turned them, a graceful dance pushing them through the air before they returned, centered, to his lap. MacLeod opened his eyes and looked directly at Methos, a small smile on his lips. "I don't know what game you're playing this time—I never did—but at least I've learned it's harder to lose if I don't play."

The problem was, it was never a game. Methos was just helpless to play it any other way. He felt his chest tighten with a desperate plea, and he had to turn away from that patient, open look. At his elbow, among the pile of books, a slip of paper held a quote. _In answer to the guileful one, the deadly, the evildoer, Ahriman, Zarathustra said, "Never will I renounce the good mind."_

It struck Methos then, like glad lightning, that he'd been right all along in his choice. Duncan MacLeod had defeated the ages-old demon of darkness and chaos using nothing but the strength of his good soul. 

Methos' chest swelled as he took a deep breath and turned back. "Well, for right now, my only game is to fatten you up, Highlander. You look like a pale imitation of your sorry self." And if engaging MacLeod's senses didn't work, he'd try something more extreme. Pushing himself to his feet, he headed back over to the kitchen area. "I hope you still have some food in here, or have you given that up, as well?"

"See for yourself," MacLeod said.

"And we'll crack open the olive oil—it has a nice, peppery undercurrent, you'll find." Methos dug through the fridge and pulled out some wilted vegetables. "How about some pasta primavera?"

"Fine. I'm not that hungry," MacLeod warned.

"You'll eat it and you'll like it," Methos said.

"Who elected you babushka?"

Methos smiled to himself, glad to hear the spark of humor in MacLeod's voice. Maybe things weren't as hopeless as they appeared. 

The meal didn't take long to prepare, the motions almost automatic. Methos kept one eye on MacLeod, who had lapsed into monosyllabic responses to Methos' patter about his travels over the previous year and his supply chains of new liquors for Joe's bar. He spoke of the coconut Arrack cocktails the Sri Lankans so adored, of the harsh bite of retsina, said to have put off the Romans during their conquest of Greek peninsula.

"The Romans always were soft," Methos said. "I think it will go well with the pasta, in any event. Come on; dinner is served."

MacLeod helped clear the desk of books and papers, his hands lingering over the old tomes as he closed them. 

"I suppose you could have used my help translating some of these," Methos said, carefully tapping the sheets of paper into a semblance of order before stacking them to the side. 

"It doesn't matter," MacLeod said. "And Ahriman might have—I couldn't have—" He gave Methos a shuttered look. "Too many died as it was."

"Do I look easy to kill, MacLeod? I have been around a while."

"Not worth the risk." MacLeod pushed his fork into his pasta and took a bite. "This is good. Thank you."

Methos sighed inwardly and poured the wine. "Do try the wine, if only a taste. I had to smuggle it through customs, after all."

MacLeod smiled at that and lifted his glass. Methos hurried to raise his and said, "To victory."

Dark eyes weighed him before MacLeod tapped glasses. "For now." He took a sip of the retsina and his mouth twisted. "I remember this stuff. From a wedding I attended once." His eyes grew distant, a fond smile lifting his lips. "Marina Papadopoulos."

"Was she a beauty?"

"She was...lovely as a meliae. A honey-nymph. Beautiful and sweet." MacLeod smiled again, wistfully. "She told me she wanted a mortal life, with a mortal man, and she left me. But she invited me to her wedding, and so I went. Dimitri was short and round and loud, and he broke plates as he danced for her. They were very happy. I think they had at least eight children."

"Good for them."

MacLeod took another sip of the wine but then put it down and pushed it away along with his plate, the meal only half-eaten.

"Come, now," Methos said as he pondered his next move.

"I ate earlier." 

Methos looked at this watch. "Earlier being breakfast or lunch? This is dinner, MacLeod. Eat up."

"You're the one who never has any meat on his bones," MacLeod retorted, and Methos hid his inner glee at the irritation in his tone.

"I have a fast metabolism. Unlike certain ox-like Highlanders of my acquaintance."

MacLeod muffled his response with another mouthful of pasta, and Methos stood to take his own empty plate to the sink. On the way back, he found his eyes drawn to MacLeod's bent head and his freshly shorn nape. Here was a place to start. This was skin Methos had never seen before—shouldn't see. There should be a stout ponytail here, hiding this vulnerable span of skin, the bumps of vertebrae and tendons sliding smoothly as MacLeod raised his head and turned to see what Methos was up to.

And that would be the next part of his plan—more hedonism—though his motives here were undeniably mixed. Methos knelt down and rested one hand, gently, so gently, on that bare stretch of skin, his thumb stroking against the fine hairs just above.

"Methos?" MacLeod's voice trembled low. 

"Hmm? Yes, that's me." Methos' hand shook a little, and he stilled it by sliding it higher so his fingers could test the softness of MacLeod's hair. 

"Is it?" MacLeod's shoulders tensed. "Ahriman tried this, too."

"Tried what?" The moment felt almost surreal in its perfection. How many times had Methos considered breaking this line, crossing this barrier? Yet now, so easily, he had Duncan MacLeod trembling under his hand.

And sliding away, away. 

"Temptation," MacLeod said, turning to face him, his face suddenly hard, eyes empty. "Is it you again, you bastard?"

"What?" Methos felt cold, without and within, until MacLeod's words sank past the shock. "You think I'm _him_? Ludicrous."

A flicker of uncertainty twitched MacLeod's eyes. "Then explain."

Methos crossed his arms. "I should think that wouldn't be necessary. You can't be ignorant as all that."

"Not—that's not what I meant and you know it." MacLeod's eyes narrowed. "If you're not Ahriman, why would you—you don't have any interest in me." MacLeod didn't wait for his response; instead, he stood and went over to his phone.

"What in God's name are you doing now?"

"Calling Joe. He can confirm."

"You can't be serious."

MacLeod ignored him.

"Joe is on his way to Iraq; you probably won't catch him."

"His plane doesn't leave until seven." MacLeod lifted a hand to cut him off before Methos could expound any further on how utterly ridiculous the situation was. 

Honestly, though. Reactions to his seduction techniques had ranged from outraged slaps in the face or punches in the mouth to enthusiastic ravishings of his person, but never once had someone accused him of being a tempting agent of Satan.

Except for that time in Romania, of course. 

Still, Methos circled around the thought of temptation, of being MacLeod's temptation in particular. 

"Hey, Joe. Did you know Methos was in town?"

Cause for hope, really, that MacLeod's mind should so easily jump to such a conclusion.

"Yeah, he brought me ouzo as well. And don't be surprised if he floods the bar with retsina in the near future. Okay, have a safe trip. And if you need anything at all, just call."

MacLeod hung up the phone and turned, a frown creasing his eyebrows. The candlelight was kind to him, glancing across the hollows of his mournful eyes, mellow in the planes of his cheeks and the dip below his full lower lip. Methos felt his breath catch and quickened a smile to combat it.

"Convinced it's me?" Methos spread his hands.

"Yes." MacLeod shrugged a shoulder, elegant somehow beneath the cheap cotton of his meditation shirt. "And all right, I'm being ridiculous. But it's been that kind of week. I'm not exactly tracking."

"I'll grant you that."

"So...is this another game, Methos?"

"Not a game." Thickheaded twit. "I'll thank you not to insult my honest overture."

It earned him a double take and an abashed look, and then MacLeod retreated, heading for his teapot. "I don't understand. Why? Why would you do this?" He sounded agitated, but his words were almost drowned out by the pouring of water, the clanking of the kettle.

And Methos was no closer to an answer or a resolution. Why, indeed. Well, he wouldn't be the only one to break tonight. 

"You said there were many casualties."

"What?" MacLeod shook his wet hands, then pressed them to his face. His neck was flushed.

Methos smiled. "Casualties of the battle with Ahriman." 

The apparent change of subject seemed to calm MacLeod. "The first was Foster. Then Jason Landry and his granddaughter, Allison. The girl, Sophie Baines. Jackie Beaufort. Maguire, Rosenthal, Evans, and Madison." MacLeod swallowed. "Richie Ryan." 

Methos stepped closer. "You forgot one."

"What? Who?"

Methos put his hand on MacLeod's chest. "Duncan MacLeod."

"I'm not dead." MacLeod's eyes were wide, his brogue thick.

"You aren't living either. For Christ's sake, look around you, Mac. This is the lair of a hermit. You don't drink; you hardly eat. You don't even have any bloody chairs!"

MacLeod's eyes wandered over Methos' shoulder, and he mumbled something that sounded like "Distractions," before his gaze returned to Methos' face. 

"Distractions? What the hell does that mean?" Methos was conscious of the fact he still hadn't moved his hand from MacLeod's chest; the longer he left it there, the warmer his palm felt, and he wanted desperately to see how warm the rest of that broad chest was, to touch the bare skin just beyond his thumb. 

MacLeod hadn't shifted away, either, he noticed, but was staring into Methos' eyes. 

"Distractions, diversions—I had to remove them all," MacLeod said. "Clear everything out of my head."

"But the battle's over, Mac," Methos said softly, coaxingly. 

"So, this is just...triage?" MacLeod's hand rose to cover his and stay his retreat.

No, not stupid. Never underestimate the Highlander. 

"So far you've accused me of being Satan, of playing games, and now I'm Nurse Nightingale," Methos said. He was surprised to find the hurt was real; even more surprised to see it register on MacLeod's face, to feel it tighten MacLeod's grip on his hand.

"Methos?" MacLeod said, questioning, disbelief still coloring his voice, but with a deep, resonating tone beneath that struck Methos through and through. And when MacLeod leaned in, eyes pleading, Methos was still somehow shocked to feel the warm press of those full lips against his at long last. Oh, how often he'd imagined this, yet somehow gotten it all wrong—MacLeod's lips were both softer and stronger than he'd dreamed, their initial hesitancy giving way to eagerness when Methos responded openly, unabashedly thrusting his tongue into MacLeod's mouth. 

The two of them kissed just long enough for Methos to hope they might have passed the threshold when MacLeod stopped with a shuddering breath. He pressed his forehead against Methos', hands tight on Methos' shoulders.

"I can't. Methos, I can't. I won't be able to fight him."

"You stubborn idiot. The battle's over. You've won!" Methos dragged an angry hand down MacLeod's side to his hip, trying to draw him closer. "Or is this about something else, Mac?" Methos shoved hard, pushing him away. "Your bogeyman is starting to sound like a pretty flimsy excuse."

"It's not you," MacLeod said, clutching his arm. "I'm not—don't you get it? He said he could give me anything. First, he tried to give me back Richie, then Tessa. If he'd given me you, I don't think...I don't think I'd have made it." MacLeod's voice went rough. 

It burned, like the thaw of a limb long frozen, to be placed in such a pantheon. "So, I'm a liability in the great warrior's battle, is that it? But Ahriman's not coming back, Mac. Not for a thousand years. It will be someone else's turn by then."

"I know. I know!" 

"Then try. Try for me, hmm?" Methos leaned in and kissed him again, capturing the soft protest with his lips, enjoying the reflexive clenching of MacLeod's hand on his arm. MacLeod didn't stop him this time, and Methos pushed, one slow kiss at a time, one slow step by slow step toward the bed, a coaxing dance until they stood, suspended, before the final note. 

"You don't understand," MacLeod whispered, his lips pressed against Methos' jaw. His breath made Methos shiver, so for a moment he couldn't respond.

"What don't I understand?" Methos was exploring the ridges and slopes of MacLeod's back muscles with his hands, touching at last what he'd coveted for so long. 

"How little I deserve you," MacLeod responded.

The words resonated past the thick haze of desire wrapped around Methos' brain, and he pushed MacLeod down flat onto the bed so he could address the dim-witted ass. 

"Who told you so? A little bird? Hmm?" Methos bit down gently on the tendon so deliciously exposed by the arch of MacLeod's neck, delighting in the soft sound MacLeod made in response. 

"Or perhaps it was that Satanic twit dumping garbage into your brain," Methos said, licking at the bite mark and prompting a gasp. 

"Methos, God." MacLeod's hands traveled restlessly over Methos' shoulders and chest, his thumbs grazing Methos' nipples and peaking them to stiffness. 

"Well," Methos said breathlessly, "I certainly deserve _you_ , no question."

MacLeod's eyes opened, and he smiled, wonder vying with fascination and making him radiant, so beautiful Methos' heart ached within his chest. 

"Don't dispute me on this, Highlander," Methos warned. "I'm still armed."

"I won't fight you." MacLeod pushed his fingers through Methos' hair, his palm cupping Methos' cheek. "I don't want to." The burr in MacLeod's voice had thickened, and Methos spread himself on top of him, certain of victory until he pressed his groin against MacLeod's and discovered no answering hard-on. 

"I'm sorry," MacLeod said to Methos' frown. MacLeod captured his face between his hands and pulled him down for another hot, wet kiss—there was no denying MacLeod mouth was interested in destroying him—but Methos wasn't having any of it.

"Let me guess: you let go of your libido while you were dumping your other baggage. Well, it's time to reclaim it."

McLeod smiled wryly. "If only it were that easy."

"It damned well should be." Methos squirmed lower and shoved MacLeod's shirt up, baring some of that lovely skin to his mouth and fingers. And oh, look at this: MacLeod's pants had a handy drawstring and slid off his hips so easily.

MacLeod's ribs expanded as he inhaled sharply. "Methos..."

MacLeod's cock was uncut, quiescent against his thigh. Just the same, Methos thought it would make a substantial mouthful. He tongued it from MacLeod's tight, round sac and sucked it in.

"God," MacLeod whispered. 

Methos would have replied, but he was a bit busy. 

"I can't."

_Oh, but you will._

"God, please, Methos." MacLeod's fingers sank into Methos' hair. 

Methos sucked, his tongue flicking the soft head of MacLeod's cock back and forth within his mouth.

MacLeod made a soft, wounded sound, and Methos paused and pulled away, covering MacLeod's cock with his hand as he raised himself to look at MacLeod's face.

MacLeod had tears leaking from his eyes. 

Feeling the fool and a lout besides, Methos drew the edge of the sheet over MacLeod's waist and settled beside him, shoulder to shoulder. 

"Well, now I'm the one who's sorry—"

"No, no..." MacLeod grabbed Methos' hand, pulling it to his chest. "I put them away, and now they've all come back." MacLeod choked on a laugh. "I thought I could get away with it. But you're always there for me—my devil's advocate."

It made no sense at all, except it did. "What did you get away with?"

"A year of peace. A year of death. A year of almost forgetting what I did."

Methos' throat ached, and he rolled over to pin MacLeod down. "You didn't kill him," Methos said fiercely. "Ahriman did."

Fresh tears spilled from MacLeod's eyes. "It was my hand. My sword. My hate. Ah, God. Richie."

And then there was nothing to say. Methos held him down while he cried, the sobs heaving them both like waves until they were tossed into the sea of sleep.

:::

Methos awoke. He was being watched.

Candlelight flickered through his slitted eyelids, and he remembered. He opened his eyes to find MacLeod gazing at him, a soft smile teasing his lips.

"What are you looking at?" Methos said crossly.

"You, old man." MacLeod drew a finger from Methos' cheekbone to his lower lip. "Lying in my bed. It's a little miraculous."

"Yes, well." Methos covered his flush of embarrassment by making a show of checking MacLeod out. At some point in the night, MacLeod had shed his clothes, and Methos cupped his hand over MacLeod's hard cock with a sense of relief. "There was the promise of sex in the not-too-distance future."

"The last of the red-hot romantics." MacLeod leaned over and kissed his jaw, stubble rasping against Methos' skin pleasantly as MacLeod continued down his neck. "Get this off. I want to see you." With an impatient tug, MacLeod got him to take off his shirt and shorts, and then MacLeod continued unhindered in his attempt to drive Methos out of his mind.

It struck him there was something wrong about this singular devotion, or something he'd meant to do—he ran his fingers through MacLeod's soft hair, dragged his fingertips against the short hairs at the back of his neck, and felt him shiver as MacLeod continued to nip his way down to Methos' cock.

Oh, yes. The plan. "You need to grow this out again," Methos said, tugging lightly. "I want to feel it in its natural state."

MacLeod raised his head and gave him a look of such profound relief, Methos had to reconsider his words.

"Oh, for God's sake. Did you honestly think I intended to let go of you once I had you, Highlander?

"No more than I plan to let go of you," MacLeod said. And then he bent his head and slid his full lips over the head of Methos' cock, and whatever tart response Methos might have made slipped his mind utterly. Such was the power of Duncan MacLeod's mouth, the lazy swipes of his tongue, and the earnest bobbing of his head. But most of all, it was the way his deep brown eyes flicked up to watch his every reaction that put Methos right over the top, and he couldn't, he simply couldn't look at Mac in that moment or his heart would overflow.

It just wouldn't do.

When he was sensible again, MacLeod had considerately tucked the sheet over his damp cock and was kissing his shoulder. 

"I can think of better places for your lips."

MacLeod chuckled low. "Are you inviting me to kiss your ass?"

"Maybe later," Methos said, and felt heat steal up his cheeks in spite of himself. "It's on offer, in any event."

MacLeod smiled in acknowledgment. "Maybe later," he said, rolling closer and taking Methos' hand, guiding it to his cock. "Hold me," he whispered, kissing him, and began to move his hips.

Such a simple thing to ask for, yet as MacLeod moved against him and Methos wrapped his other arm around him, guiding him, feeling the power of him and also his fragility, the tender skin of his cock moving within Methos' fingers, it seemed not so simple a thing at all, but as complex and impossible as the love that had brought him here to begin with. MacLeod moaned softly and bit kisses into hollow of Methos' throat, and Methos murmured nonsense back, sensing he was close, and then MacLeod's strong body shuddered and stilled, his cock pulsing in Methos' hand. 

Methos carefully relaxed his grip, making MacLeod twitch, and wiped his hand on the sheet before patting him.

"Get off me, you great ox."

MacLeod laughed softly. "Romantic as anything." He rolled to the side and kissed Methos once, searchingly, before rising naked from the futon. "Tea?"

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"Ouzo, then? Or the rest of the retsina?"

"Bring the wine. And a washcloth," Methos said, enjoying the view as MacLeod walked away.

The man was obedient, at least, and after a quick cleanup, Methos toasted him with the bottle and took a swig, relishing the tart bite of pine that cut through the fuzz in his mouth. He was surprised, but pleased, when MacLeod filched it from him afterward to take a healthy gulp of his own. They passed the bottle back and forth that way in silence for a while, until Methos felt compelled to ruin the moment.

"I am sorry I didn't believe you sooner. I honestly thought you were delusional."

MacLeod froze with the bottle halfway to his lips. He let it fall back to his lap. "Well, you had no proof."

"When it comes to you, though..." Methos balked at saying the rest. "Anyway, I was too quick to judge. Joe was too quick to judge. Only Richie..."

MacLeod's face tightened. 

"Anyway, I'm sorry." _Please just say it, Mac. For God's sake._

"I forgive you, Methos." MacLeod shrugged. "I think I would have reacted the same way."

Liar. But Methos appreciated the lie just the same. He looked around at the spare room, the single candle stand remaining, and the rumpled mat on the floor, and said, "So, are you going to buy some chairs or what?"

"You want chairs?"

"Yes, I want chairs. I want a table. I want lamps and books and good beer in the fridge. I want you to bring back that God-awful forgery from Vienna—"

"It wasn't a forgery!"

"Oh, it was a forgery. You know how I know? Because I knew the little weasel who painted it, and he always snuck a tiny seabird in there somewhere."

MacLeod blinked and then started laughing. "All right. You'll get your chairs. And your beer." He grabbed the retsina before Methos could fend him off and finished the last of it before dropping the bottle to the side. "God, I missed you," MacLeod said, and promptly tackled him flat for another kiss.

"I missed you, too," Methos said, looking up at him. "Don't spread it around, though."

"I'll keep it a secret." MacLeod's eyes still held the shadows of the past year, enough that Methos was torn between running for the hills and wrapping him up in swaddling and never letting him escape the barge.

He settled for ripping his own chest open. "I love you, you annoying Highland child."

MacLeod's mouth gaped slightly, and then he shook his head. "I love you, too. You ancient bag of bones."

Well. There was that.

 

………………………  
April 1, 2015  
San Francisco, CA

**Author's Note:**

> Mischief thinks Methos invented the [Χασάπικο](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzR9aoNo7Bs). I think it more likely he took the boring, traditional Χασάπικο and mixed it up as the zippier [Συρτάκι](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkHfKjwPHXo), which gets positively frenetic at the end.


End file.
